


Wintersong

by Berty



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canada, Christmas, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 00:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ray tucks himself into the shadow of the wall, forgets about the cold and wonders if he's seen too much to believe in miracles."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wintersong

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Secretlybronte and AuKestrel for lovely beta work as always.

It's late by the time they land and it's been dark for hours. His flight got delayed in Yellowknife – they might have told him why but he doesn't remember now. Probably the weather. Seems like days ago.

He gets a ride in from the airstrip with Deke, and hopes he isn't coming across as rude, but he just doesn't much feel like talking. He stares out of the window at the familiar landmarks on the way into town: the hardware store where Fraser buys nails by the pound; the garage where Fraser's jeep seems to spend much of its time when Ray's not here to keep it running; the track that leads down to the lake where Fraser took him skating last winter, laughing so hard at Ray's efforts that Ray thought he'd stroke out or something; the scatter of neat little houses, their windows glowing with the yellow light of fires and food and friendship.

He didn't tell Fraser when to expect him, so Ray's not surprised to find the cabin deserted when he gets there. He dumps his bag and wanders slowly once around the little room, noting all the differences since the last time he was here. There aren't many: a new blanket on the bed; a couple more photos of Frannie's kids tacked on the pin-board, his own letters and postcards tucked into the corner of the frame. It's simple, tidy and very, very Fraser. Ray winces, thinking of the chaos he's left behind in his own apartment, clothes, flatware and magazines on every surface, his bed unmade in his hurry to catch his flight.

There's still a space where Dief's rug used to be, and he wishes Fraser would move stuff around so it doesn't remind him every damn time. He stamps back outside, suddenly unable to settle. It makes him nuts, being here again in this place that isn't his home, but he loves like it is. Maybe it's the travelling, but ever since he got on the plane at O'Hare, a feeling has been growing - that this is wrong. He can't explain it, even to himself, but it's like something has gone bad at some fundamental level and he shouldn't be making this journey again.

He's forty-one and the truth is he doesn't know where he should be. At home with Stella and a couple of blond kids? With his parents? His brother's family? None of those seem right either. But the further from Chicago and the closer to Fraser he's gotten, the more certain he is that spending the holidays with his best friend, at his age, is maybe kind of fucked.

It's been this way for a few years now: two weeks in the summer, a week at Christmas. Some years… most years… he comes back at Easter, too, when it seems to be taking forever for summer to come around.

And Fraser… well, Fraser's always the same. Always pleased to see him. Always has a smile and a hug. 'Polite' doesn't begin to cover it.

And that's the way they play it for an hour or an afternoon or even, one time, an entire day, and then Fraser gives him a look. To this day, Ray can't tell you what makes up that expression. Hunger? Despair? Resignation? He has no idea. But he knows what it _means_. It means that Fraser's about to take him to his bed, suck him off fast and rough, and then fuck him so slow and sweet that Ray will have to close his eyes so he doesn't cry from the intensity of it.

Always the same. A few days of Fraser's kisses, Fraser's hands on him, Fraser's words against his skin,_ "I missed you. I missed you."_ And then Ray will find himself on the bare, windblown airstrip again, with Fraser's fingers wrapped around his, shaking his hand, smiling and watching as he climbs aboard the tiny plane that will take him back to Yellowknife, for the bigger plane to Edmonton, for the jet to Chicago.

Maybe that _is_ where he should be right now. Maybe dragging his pathetic ass up here every year is what's stopping him for getting a life down there, a _meaningful_ life where he has a family and a career and a future. Maybe loving Fraser is what feels so _wrong._

Or maybe it's Fraser not loving him back in the same way.

Ray's thought about _that_ a lot, and he's certain that Fraser does love him, but it's very different from what he thinks of as love.

Maybe if Ray could teach Fraser what love means to him, if he could make him see the difference and take away that haunted look that Fraser sometimes gets, maybe if they could get some kind of plan for the future, and talk about how good it could be all year round, it'd be worth the distance that separates them now.

But whenever Ray tries to talk to him, Fraser shakes his head with a clueless smile and a hardness in his eyes – the most gentle rejection possible, but a rejection just the same.

And Ray lets it go – every time.

At first Ray thought that he could find out why Fraser refused to even discuss their… well, relationship isn't the right word, but Ray can't think of another one. He thought for a while maybe he could work on that, but lately he's stopped even trying.

It's been snowing. Of course it's been snowing, this is Northern Canada in December, but it looks recent, still pristine enough to be pretty, glowing blue white in the intermittent moonlight of the blue black sky. The cold doesn't surprise him anymore, but even with his gloves and hat and the thick coat he only ever wears when he comes up here, he's still walking fast to keep warm.

The effort of it feels good, and the funk he's in starts to fade. It's replaced by something else then – a kind of clarity. If loving Fraser is keeping his life in a holding pattern, then maybe Ray's visits are doing the same to Fraser. Maybe neither of them can move on when the longest they stay apart is five months.

It kind of makes sense.

If Fraser had wanted more from Ray, he would have found a way to say it, surely. It's been five years! If he hasn't found the words by now, then it's pretty safe to assume that there aren't any words to be said. And Fraser would never tell him to stop coming, but he's a guy underneath all that proper preparation crap, so he's not going to turn down some semi-regular fucking with a guy he knows and loves, even if it isn't going anywhere.

Maybe Fraser has been waiting, biding his time until Ray realised by himself that that's all they have, all they ever will have and that there is no happily ever after.

And it's taken him five years.

That's long enough, by anyone's count.

If he turns around now he can get back to the cabin, pick up his bag and maybe get out of there before Fraser even knows he's in town. The mail plane gets in around 8 a.m., so if he heads back to the airstrip, he can find somewhere to wait until then.

Ray slows, stops, nods and finally turns himself back towards Fraser's place. He hears the music before he realises where he is. The little church is lit from within. It's not a pretty building, but in the darkness, with the fine snow being whipped up into the air like sand, and the trees beside it turned white and brittle by the ice, it glows like heaven itself.

In spite of the wind, he can hear the small, mismatched choir practicing. Out onto the blustery, cold air the melody of 'Silent Night' drifts, a song he learned in kindergarten, a song he's endured about a million times already this month, but somehow now, with the snow swirling around his boots and prickling at his cheeks, it's like it's the first time he's ever heard it.

Ray knows it's Fraser's guitar he can hear, supporting the soft voices, wrapping the words in a subtle harmony. Above the melody he can hear a top line, maybe just a single voice, lifting this rendition out of the ordinary and suddenly making it hard for Ray to swallow. They're not accomplished singers by any means, but they're in tune and if Ray concentrates, he's sure he can pick out Fraser's strong tenor under the more tentative higher pitches.

It's simple and sad and hopeful.

Ray tucks himself into the shadow of the wall, forgets about the cold and wonders if he's seen too much to believe in miracles.

By the time Fraser comes out, twenty minutes later and last as always, Ray's blinked away the tears. He moves into the light spilling from the open doorway and grins. Fraser looks happy, surprised and the light from inside shines behind him, creating a glow around his head where the snowflakes shine as they settle in his hair.

Ray leans gratefully into the one-armed hug, takes Fraser's guitar case and falls into step beside him. Their footprints are well matched in the new snow, even, equal and never overlapping.

Fin


End file.
